


rogue lineage

by kuugeki (strangestirony)



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Chapters are short, Character Death, Compulsive Liar, Do not coincide with each other, Everyone Is Gay, F/F, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Heavy Angst, I ate a horse, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Loss of Identity, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Multi, Multi-Era, Nature Versus Nurture, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Self-Insert, Suicide, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unreliable Narrator, and we destroy with a RoADO ROLLA, at all, hey that rhymed, i actually do not know how to end this, identity crisis, lmao now onto the less serious tags, our boy is a liar, terribly so, the tone of this story and it’s crack author, there's really no plot, wRRRYYYYYY, we take canon, whoops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:28:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21925381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangestirony/pseuds/kuugeki
Summary: Away and away, the stray drifts. How long has it been since he was somebody?[SI-OC AU]
Comments: 21
Kudos: 66





	1. 00:01

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Not beta-read.)

  
****Doyou have those moments where thoughts jumble in your head, buzzing like static around clouds of steel—then it just _clears—_

Clarity. And you just stare blankly at the whiplash of _everythingallnone _to _it. _And go, "Oh." Like a mathematician to a rather complex problem, once he turns his head and looks at it from a different angle, with different formulas and everything just clicks into place, like—

"Oh."

—now.

Like a puff of smoke, dissipating with a single blow.

_(It's dark. Where am I?)_

_(It doesn't matter, it chides.)_

And in calm, there is chaos. In chaos, there is calm. A small, and condensed thing, with every nook and cranny fitted to where everything should be, imploding into mutterings of _what is— what will— everythingnothingall—_

It burns. Not like a gas stove, fire roaring and the smell of gasoline thick in the air. Flame licking at the tips of the fingers dangerously and purposefully close, to feel the heat. Not like the sun and it's piercing rays, of _bright bright bright, of hot, of warm— _it burns cold. It churns and it's slow, like two cogs that don't fit together, trying and fighting to turn in a wheel.

_(What's happening?)_

_(I don't know, it whispers.)_

_(H e l p.)_

It burns cold, uncomfortable and sharp. Brittle and clean, biting. Like the air you exhale at the peak of winter, where your nose is red and stuffed, and you can see the small and visible clouds of carbon you breathe out. It stabs a little at the lungs—

_(I can't breathe.)_

_(I can breathe.)_

It's dark.

_(I know.)_

Why is it dark? Who turned the lights out?

_(Nobody did.)_

_(It is not dark.)_

It is not dark. _Itisdarkwhoturnedthelightsoutplease—_

Nobody turned the lights off. There are no lights.

_(What is happening?)_

_—open your eyes. _

* * *

**Part One.**  
  


**v̶͍̥̂̃͌̿̐̑̽a̸̧̡̳̘̱̣̦͉̻̣̯̞͈͆c̸̡̡̗̝̮͔̜̥̭̦̙̒͆͊̉̎͛̚͝͝ų̸͇̘͚̞̣̲̜̟͓̖̥̘̍̄̓̔̆͊́̃͐̓͒͜͜͝͝͝ư̸̛͚̖̈́͆͆̐̉m̵̛̛͍͉̐̄͑͋̇͝**  
  
  


* * *

The first time the dark—_not dark, never dark; nobody has turned off the lights, there are no lights—_is gone in the presence of the bright morning, he wakes up, feeling like a scream is ready to tear at his throat. _Dark dark dark. The deep, dark, below. He can't breathe, he can breathe—who turned the lights off?_

Sweat runs down his face, pools at his jaw and falls. His stomach drops and there's a certain _something _stuck in his throat. He swallows and it feels like his throat has been stabbed. His eyes burn—his lungs burn. _He can breathe. _His hands run down his face. Everything is disorienting, but—

_I'm going to sleep in, _he tells himself.

_Okay_.

He wiped at the sticky liquid on his forehead, smears it on the thin blanket and settles back on his futon, never questioning it, never realizing. He closes his eyes.

_He _tosses and turns, immediately, seeing dark.

_(Tatsurama turns and falls asleep.)_

* * *

His fingers touch the mirror, a flimsy thing—by the looks of it, but the reflection it holds, makes his voice catch in his throat and his eyes burn. _This is not me_, he cries, in anger, or defiance. It doesn't matter.

His right hand traces his features on the mirror, in sick fascination, and his left follows, almost hesitantly on the real thing. He chokes out a sob. _What is happening?_

_(I don't know. Please help.)_

Someoneknocks from the other the side of the door. He turns and he faintly remembers that it is wood, but not the softer and processed kind, painted in white. It is clunky, and he can smell the aged scent of timber. It is brown and he can see the marks upon it.

"Tatsurama-kun?"

He clears his throat. "I—" his voice cracks. _(This is not my voice.)_

"I will be out in a moment." He rasped out, in a tongue that's not familiar at all, that pours acid down his throat.

He looks back at his reflection and sees those green eyes stare back at him. Bile slowly rises to his throat—he swallows and turns away.

_(My eyes are not green.)_

* * *

There is no salvation in death. There is no redemption—_nothing_. It is feeling the buzzing of your thoughts in the dark—_I can breathe? Why can I breathe?—_the weight of your existence, in nothingness, and _wrong_. In pitch black, where your eyes are closed and open, where they are seared with image of all. Where the shell of your body had collapsed and all that is left is _you_, in the vast space of _it_.

_(It is snowing.)_

He twists with the fraying ends of his clothes, feeling the thread underneath rub against his fingers. His _greengreengreen—wrong— _eyes move to his younger siblings, all very small, little things. To his father, experiencing the fragility of humanity, then to his mother, haggard and worn thin, like his shirt. _(We are poor.)_

_(Yes.)_

_Where are we?_

He doesn't know. He shovels the last of his breakfast—_foreign, wrong—_down his throat, gathers up his plates in a mindless pile and moves to the kitchen, assisted by muscle memory and repetition.

_(I can't taste anything.)_

* * *

It is a soft transition. There is no wading in and out of unconsciousness. There is no sight of a man hovering over you, in a blur of motions and colors, only to speak in a foreign language. There is no crying, or feeling how easy it would be to end a baby's life—the mortality of it all. There is no incredulous acceptance of where you are, of what this is.

There is dark, and then, there is you.

He faintly recalls his thoughts, tracing the lines on his hand.

There has never been a Tasturama. _(Neither has there been a Genki, Matsuri, Tenko—_

_—only you.)_

_Who are you?_

My name—

I'm R—

Ta—

—tsu—

—I don't remember.

_(My name is Nijimai Tatsurama.)_

_(Okay.) _  
  


* * *

**Prologue**  
**00:01**  
**End. **

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...The start of something horrible. I'm going to say... that this one will go strong, for like .1 month and then die off as I also die off. Then, it might return. Who knows.


	2. Echo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is even going on anymore?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Not beta-read.)

There's a certain hysteria in waking up another day, and still seeing yourself anew. But, as someone who's practiced compartmentalization, and practiced it well, it wasn't hard to just scoop up all of the screaming, crying, or any other inside your head and shove it in a box. Before kicking it into the ocean to drown in eternal silence and negligence. _(He's never going to open that box.)_

It is snowing. A novel idea—_H̶̛̠̟͚̪͉͂̂̈́̀͒̓̌̃͒͂e̶̖̫̺̠̞̤̔ _has never seen snow in his life. Tatsuramahas. _(Is this just a simple restart?)_

Tatsurama had been the one to deliver their natural harvests to the town below for money. It is snowing. _(It is winter.) _He's been relieved of that duty, ever since the flaky, white substance had picked up in ferocity. It is storming.

He had just started to deliver this fall, he gathers. His hands twist in themselves, a jumbled mess and he's tense. He hasn't had enough time to save and gather up anything substantial.

If this is a restart, Tatsurama considers, it is not a very forgiving one.

There's a certain calm in dying once. _(I am not scared of it.)_

The winter has come. Their farm will die out in the desolate and cold climate, their constitutions will wither with lack of expertise.

It is only the second day, but Tatsurama can already see the clock tick down to the final days. With this family that he has been with for two moons. With the siblings he's interacted with, as _him_, for a limited, and small amount of time.

His hands separate themselves from their wringing.

He doesn't know if this second chance will survive past winter. _(That's okay.)_  
  


* * *

**Chapter One**  
**Echo**

* * *

The first one to catch the deadly wisps of the cold is Mother. Tatsurama figures that it was meant to be. She had overworked herself; she was constantly exhausted—it wasn't hard to see she would fall first, despite the younger one's developing immune systems.

Their father, despite his health, has decided to venture down the mountain to get a physician. Tatsurama only conveys worry. _(No doctor will come at this time and season, he chided.) _They don't have the money anyways.

He bites his tongue and smiles, waving at the back of his father until the man is swallowed up in the storm.

Mother gets worse. Despite his efforts, the littles ones has caught the infection. They are all sick. Except him. _(Why?)_

Father doesn't come back after the third week hits. One of the little ones cannot gather the efforts to get up from their futon. They cry. Tatsurama is scared to venture far into the wood to gather wood, for their dwindling fire.

It is very cold, he knows, and their stock of kindling is slowly being devoured by the insatiable flame. He swallows, and goes to prepare soup with the dredged of vegetables that remain. _(We are dying.)_

_(No— they are dying.)_

How depressing.

* * *

The children are no longer allowed to enter Mother's—_no longer also called Father's—_room. It doesn't matter anyways, Tatsurama considers, as they can no longer move without feeling pain in their lungs. _(Or the fact that she's dead. Dead, deaddeaddeadDeA_**_DDEAD—_**_)_

She's dead. Corpse rotting and expelling stench unto the room. He's taken to burning lemon peel by the door, just to get rid of the smell of decay, if only for a bit. Still, the sight of her lifeless body, not mangled or deformed, has dried and withered to a husk. He should probably feel something, heavy and deep—righteous. But, the only feeling that surged up in his gut, is swirling mass of disgust, at the stench and at himself.

When did he become so cold?

Tatsurama doesn't know and he doesn't let it dwell deep. He shoves it away, continues to re-boil the same bowl of water, continue to clean the sick children, tend to them at anyway he can, and burn lemon peels by Mother's door. But, sickness does not follow him as it has followed his siblings.

One day later, he notices that the flesh of the youngest one, that he's diligently scrubbed with warm water, and the cleanest towel he can provide— is cold. The other two are whimpering, but asleep. In the time that the folded towels on either child's forehead cools, their sibling is removed from the room.

Later, he thinks upon how numb it was to pry the door to Mother's room open, to swallow the disgust of the smell, and lay his youngest sibling's prone form next to hers. He burns more than two lemons this time.

He faintly thinks on how he is running out, just as how the other two children are running out of time. _(Why do you not do anything else?)_

He doesn't know. He cares for them, in robotic moments of _wipe, scrub_—_feed, whisper encouraging words. They're hallow—_

He cares.

Not enough, though.

_(Isn't caring enough?)_

No.

* * *

_Why are you doing this?_

His fingers dig into his palm, vindictive and merciless, but he doesn't draw blood. Tatsurama looks at the forms of his last remaining sibling. He looks at the ghostly white skin, sticky and shining with sweat, at his form, bony and fed with nothing but enough soup to get by. He doesn't know them at all.

_(Why didn't you do anything else? Why didn't you _ ** _try_ ** _?)_

Deep in the recess of his mind, where it screams and cries, he answers. _I didn't care. _He brushes it away and sits, hands folded on his lap and stares at the shallow breathing of the small boy. It's a while before he stands, ignoring the prickly feeling in the bottom of his feet.

* * *

He stops burning lemons. The smell of rotting flesh and maggots has littered the house, suffocating him.

His last sibling is dead. He doesn't even remember their names, none of them.

Winter has passed.

* * *

Tatsurama doesn't have the heart or will to bury any of them. _(Scum.)_

He takes whatever he can, from the hatchet to a small sack with whatever clothes he can fit into, for the upcoming years. He doesn't bury their body, or honor their deaths. He doesn't even remember Father at all.

He burns it all down and watches as the flames greedily devour the wood and the corpses inside. Something settles in his mind, and his gut. He blinks and turns to trudge away, despite the burn he feels in his legs, either from exertion or the biting cold.

He faintly wonders if leaving the fire unattended for will bring for a forest fire. He shrugs and moves on. _(He doesn't care.)_

* * *

He cannot stomach food. It's suffocating—the feeling of food going down his throat and once it's inside his belly, all he wants to do is throw it back up. He still can't taste anything.

* * *

Tatsurama wonders why he's fallen so far. But, that's on a slightly better day, before the thought is swallowed up by the buzzing in his head. It hurts, but he keeps moving on.

Sometimes, he doesn't remotely think he feels human anymore.

_(Fallen far from where?)_

He can't remember.

One day, a star falls. He watches, far away, even as the light sears his eyes. The heavy, yet hollow feeling in his gut changes. The heaviness of his limbs is not gone, but Tatsurama feels light. He feels like he's sinking deeper every step he takes.

Something's wrong—

—but, he doesn't care enough to investigate. He keeps walking, and carrying on without truly living. _(Where am I going?)_

_(It doesn't matter.)_

Away. Away from here.

_(Where is here?)_

I don't know.

* * *

He finds a tree. _(It's large, too large. He knows this from somewhere. The feeling of deja vu rubs at his mind, until it scars and burns. Get _**_out—_**_)_

"Oh." He saids, once more.

Except this time, it is not in deep darkness, where eternity is nothing and nothing is infinite. It is him, with the buzzing of his head, and the heaviness in his being—a form stretched thin and unfitting. His mouth twists, finally an expression that is not blank, or full of despair for the past five months.

The hazy and stormy cloud pressing on his mind lightens and moves. He feels like he's going to puke.

Tatsurama dry heaves instead. 

* * *

**Chapter One**  
**Echo**  
**End. **

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how I messed up my characterization so much I turned him into a robot that does internal monologues.


	3. Wave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We take a small little dip into the rabbit hole. And then, we take it out like it burns us, because what the fuck is this genre. 
> 
> Oh no, it’s self aware—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ఠ ͟ಠ
> 
> The tone of this story and this style of narration is slowly, but surely losing its consistency and going out of wack. Or is that because of the turtle pace at which the block of ice, currently called Tatsurama, is being melted at? Nah, who the fuck am I shitting.
> 
> (Not beta-read.)

Hindsight is twenty-twenty. By the time he can feel half of the shit a human being is supposed to, he can barely recall what _he's_ been called. Though, he supposed that at the beginning of this shitshow, he didn't remember anyways.

"Matsuri?"

He blinks and turns to look at the quizzical boy. His coal, black eyes seem to pierce into him, but Matsuri is an expert in pretending he's okay, so he shakes the familiar buzzing and numbness for many lifetimes before, and smiles.

"Yes?" He replies, perfectly amiable and brushes away the hysterical thoughts.

Hindsight won't come for a long time, anyways.   
  


* * *

**Chapter Two**  
**Wave** ****

* * *

The tree, Tatsurama feels, is the only thing that keeps him sane—

—to a point.

_(He's already gone, anyways.)_

But, it is slightly maddening, because Tatsurama doesn't know why. Something thrums under his hand when he places it on the bark. Something beckons for him to say the fated words, to _want—_

Tatsurama doesn't want anything. He remembers the sight of modernized landscapes and the heavy deforestation of the nature beside him, but he doesn't seek to come back to it. There is nothing to go back to, anyways. Nor, does he want the family of this life to come back. _(He doesn't know if it's the crippling guilt that's slowly been eating at him, or the nightmares that he gets, despite his indifference to it.)_

Hollow.

Tatsurama leaves the tree. There is nothing here for him, except deja vu that burns itself into his head, until his mentality is flipped on itself.

Another visits, no longer than two days later. The tree is gone in less that hours, withering away.

* * *

He is fourteen, on the cusp of turning fifteen and it has been three years since he's gotten here when the words of a rabbit goddess reaches his ears. It's a right-time-right-place kind of coincidence, if someone random jackass from above was looking down for some cheap and cruel entertainment. He's stashed himself in the corner of a bar. He watches with hooded eyes, hunger entirely forgotten as a man tells his tale animatedly in the center of the bar.

Something from the far-fetched story rings with him. He doesn't know what it is, but he carefully tucks it away, saves it for later and turns back to his own table. He knows by now that he can't accept things at face value like some regular plebian. Tatsurama sniffs. _Rabbit Goddess... he's certain he's heard it from somewhere else before._

The waitress—_or whatever they're called in this time of age. Tatsurama hasn't really adopted the culture enough to care—_reaches his table, flashes him a smile he knows all too well, gives him his order and asks if he needs anything else. Tatsurama blinks up at her, for a moment, disoriented from being yanked away from his thoughts.

Then, he gently shakes his head. "No," he rasped out, before clearing his throat and tries again, pleasant enough. "No. I'm good, thank you."

And gives her the same smile in return. At least, he doesn't feel horrible smiling it this time.

He looks at the food. It's not home-cooked, and it's not something you'd desire if it wasn't given to you as one of the limited options, and it's totally unworthy of mention. But, as he takes a tentative bite—

—Tatsurama still can't taste anything, but ashes on his lips and heavy dust in his throat. He swallows, takes a large gulp of the water and takes another bite.

_(Still no good.)_

What was he expecting, anyways?

* * *

"Hello," Tatsurama greets, bland in tone.

The same, half-drunken man turns to him, a sneer ready on his face. His eyes, a dull brown color, silently looks at his form—_up down, up down, narrow—_before connecting with his own, half-heartedly. It's a far cry from his former personality, of a colorful storyteller. Tatsurama can't say he likes this man, but the tale of the Rabbit Goddess has him hooked.

Like the tree.

But, not like the tree. It does not make him feel more caved out and hollowed than he already is. It makes his stomach churn with something uncomfortable, like he should know something, but he's not quite there yet. Tatsurama decides that he doesn't like it. _(It makes him feel.)_

_(Tatsurama hasn't felt in quite a long time.)_

"Whatdya want, ya brat?"

His lips curl at the name, but he's polite all the same. "Your... story about the Goddess. Do you have more about her?" He asks.

The man's eyes narrow, peering down at Tatsurama like he was some ant crawling on his hand. Bothersome. He scrunches his nose in distaste, but shakes it away. It wouldn't do any good to chase the man away with a bad impression. _(Why does this matter anyways?)_

He doesn't know.

_(There's a lot of thing you don't know, the voice laughs.)_

"What's it matter to you?" He sneered.

It doesn't, Tatsurama wants to say. It _doesn't. (But it does.)_

He's a being dunked headfirst into liquid lies—Tatsurama basically survives on it, so a bitter smile twists on his lips and the second most outrageous lie is being spat out like sugar. "That depends." He started, smooth and unwavering in the face of open hostility.

"She sounds just like my mother's killer." _(Liar. You killed her.)_

The man looks at him, and this time, it seems as though he doesn't look _through _him. He almost squirms, but squares himself and stares back. The tipsy, half-drunk state almost leaves the man immediately; wisps of smoke clearing in the sky.

"You don't look or sound like you come from the Capital."

Tatsurama stares blankly back and shrugs. "No, I suppose I don't anymore." He answers, almost honestly.

"I ain't gonna lead a kid to his death."

"I never said you were, I just want the stories."

The man shifts, until his state is _boring _into Tatsurama. "I know your kind," he spits, like he's some type of seer. Tatsurama wants to laugh in his face, but lately, he finds energy lacking to. "Petty revenge is going to get you killed."

He sounds bitter, Tatsurama notes. That means—

"You make it sound like she's real." He hums, the fakest sound he's heard in his life. Somewhere in him, it's vibrating with excitement. _(Finally, it crows, something.) Something?_

Tatsurama ignores it in favor of the rather interesting expression the man makes. His lips twitch, but settle down easily enough.

"I ain't telling you shit, kid. Go scramble back to your family."

With that, he's stumbling away. Though, Tatsurama doesn't know where his vindictive streak has come from, he can't help himself, but project his voice at the man, having the last laugh in their rather boring, and otherwise mentally _un_-stimulating chat.

"Sir! My mother's dead!"

What a way to be blunt. At least, he has some type of lead. Something nags at him. _(Why are you acting so invested in this, you fake?)_

Tatsurama ignores it.  
  


* * *

**Chapter Two**   
**Wave**   
**End.**

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The most outrageous lie Tatsurama has ever told is that he’s the son of a family, far in the woods. That he’s the big brother of three innocent children that he left to freeze to death. That he’s the son of a woman who he left to succumb to sickness and rot in her room along her three children. 
> 
> He’s not their son, he’s their murderer.


	4. Ocean Tide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Not Beta-Read.)

Overlooking things was a rookie mistake, and he should have known. Frustration is hot, and it bubbles like boiling water does, but it doesn't float down to the bottom to cool. It's the most concrete thing Tatsurama has felt in weeks. He doesn't know if he should be on the ground trying to force out tears of incredulity or be burned like a human too close to a flame. He finds that it doesn't matter, as he squashes the frustration down until it was a feeble, and pathetic thing, and moves on.

Though, not knowing where he was, after intense questioning upon himself on that subject was a rather major mistake. _Still—_

"Oh." It's small outward reaction, but the internal shock is big enough to cover for the both of them, he thinks. Still, a few things are clearing up in his mind and the unfitting cogs are being smoothed down to something more satisfactory.

Then, Tatsurama barks out a laugh, like it's the funniest joke he's ever been told. And to be honest? He isn't that far off.

He laughs until his lungs burn. Tatsurama howls in maniac laughter until the map crinkles under the pressure of his fingers, until it's ripped to shreds and he's sobbing on the cold, hard ground.

What a sick joke his life has been.

_(Lives.)_

Shut the fuck up.

* * *

**Chapter Three**   
**Ocean Tide**

* * *

_"Brother—big brother, it hurts." The child is sobbing, in his fetal position on the futon. Tatsurama is sure, that it hurts to be stuck in that position for so long, so he adjusts his form._

_He watches in sick fascination as the child wreathes and cries. It's a rather distant feeling, he thinks—like watching a show from afar._

_"I know." He muttered, and rubs the boy's back as he coughs heavily. "I know. I'm sorry."_

_He's not._

_And that's what he's mostly sorry for._

_The noise this one makes rouses the other one up, from his pleasant slumber, and into the cold, painful reality that is his own. His mouth curls at the noise, but he's already over to the other side of the conjoined futons, relieving his younger brother of the worst of his pain. It's the least he could do after all._

_To erase this guilt and this hollow feeling._

_(The hollow, sick feeling goes away. The guilt makes a home in his heart and brings permanent heaviness to his chest.)_

_The corpse of the middle brother is cold. Still, he moves with practiced movement. Tatsurama scoops up the boy's body, apologizes a tad too late for it to count, opens the door to the faint smell of lemon incense, rotting corpses and of overfilling, selfish guilt. He lays the boy's body a few feet away from his mother and brother, avoiding the gathering maggots like the plague._

_When he leaves the room, shutting the door with his heart slightly hammering in his chest—it's not, it's not, stop, stop, stopstopstop—his hands are shaking heavily._

_Tatsurama knows it's from the cold. Just not the one he'd like to think about._

* * *

As a practical person, Tatsurama likes to think that he's above all of this. And that he might be more self aware than he should be. _Still_. His teeth pulls at the edge of his thumbnail, slowly grinding into it, before he sighs and pulls away. He's also developing a bad habit, he thought dryly.

Tatsurama folds away the map that he's religiously studied for half a night, tucks it into his clothes and pretends like it's content doesn't bother him. _(It doesn't. It shouldn't.)_

It does.

"Well." He mumbled, just as the sun was rising and it's rays were piercing into the window of the inn's room. He's always been a bit too good, too eager at chasing impossible things.

"This is going to be the death of me," he admits, dryly, and leans back against the chair, off-guard.

_(Everything is going too well.)_

He hates it. He hates how smoothly everything is going, how it's a peaceful ride down the hill. Tatsurama could say that he hates it more than he hates himself. _Improbable. _He silently bristles, rubs his eyes a little heatedly because exhaustion has never been a problem these past few months with demons hounding on him at every turn in his sleep, so it shouldn't now. He sharply inhales, blinks and freshens himself up with minimal effort.

Then, he's out of the inn, contents of the crudely procured map fresh in his mind—burned in like a heated metal rod to the skin, or a tattoo. Tatsurama can feel that his mind is a bit hazy, like a cloud of locust, buzzing and swarming in dreadful desert heat, scorching and uncaring. That his chest is going to cave in from inside out at how hollow and empty it is, that his muscles are screaming and that he's chest deep in exhaustion. His eyes sting from lack of rest, lids heavier than two elephants on crack and the feeling of restlessness exude from him like an unsavory cloak.

Despite feeling like the world had just put him into a modern, twenty-first century blender and puked it out for the dogs to chew on—Tatsurama keeps moving forward, with no significant regard to the past or the present. Because that's all he does, it's all he can do now.

* * *

The contents of the map isn't detailed, yet it isn't lacking in the department, either. It's like a tutorial. It tells you the _just_ right amount of information, and leaves you feeling like you've missed something important with the basic info you've been given. It's sloppy scribbling of where every continent is, where they border so you can tell who's coming from one end and out the other—their names, significant landmarks, but—

No routes, no distinct designation of _where _he fits upon the map. His lips curl, as minuscule as the movement is. _How absentminded_, he chided himself. He distantly thinks that the carelessness might kill him someday. _Not that it matters anyways_, he added on rather quickly, seeing as death was as trivial and old as the stale bread he ate in the morning.

"Pardon me," Tatsurama reaches out in a stiff manner and in a surprisingly soft voice that almost makes him jolt. _(All these years and I still can't get used to this voice.)_

"Hmm?" The man—boy_?—_hums and looks at him quizzically. "Yes?"

_He's polite_, he internally noted_. What a breath of fresh air._

Tatsurama rubs the back of his neck and fiddles with his cloak, a sheepish expression adorning his face. He brings out the map, the unhelpful little thing, and chuckles.

_(FAKEFAKEFAKEFAKEFAKE.)_

"I'm very sorry to bother you—" He's really not. "—but, I, uh, seem to have terrible navigation. And I'm lost."

The young man's eyebrows raised, incredulous. "I've never seen someone be lost in _Kamakura_ before." He noted with a wry tone, yet he shifted in his seat all the same.

"_Kamakura_?" Tatsurama repeated.

"It's where you're at right now," the man dryly said.

"Oh," Tatsurama breathes out, and gives a small laugh. "I can't really tell geography really well, never needed too."

Ever the nice and helpful gentleman since the start of their meeting, the man gives an amused snort before signaling him to sit. He rather curtly snatches the map out of Tatsurama's hand, waiting for no signal before he launched into his own explanation.

"Here," he said, circling a spot near the lower middle of the _Land of Fire_'s maritime border, tapping it once. "This is where we are now, the major trading port Kamakura. It's one of the closest cities to the capital of the Land of Fire... here."

There, he drags his finger up, and over to the right by a smidgen. Then, he circles the area as well. "This is the capital of the Land of Fire, _Tokugawa_," the man's eyes quickly flicker up to Tatsurama, who feels the pin-prickling sensation of eyes boring onto him, but bites down the uncomfortable feeling, and instead focuses on the map, "though, you don't seem to be from there."

"No," Tatsurama admits, quietly, "I'm not, but my mother there is. My grandmother, my caretaker, has fallen too ill to take care of me and now I've been sent off on this mind-aching journey to find her and seek refuge with her."

_(Lies, the voice in his mind hisses.)_

He quickly snuffed it out, but not before it leaves a heavy feeling in his chest. He sighs.

"Oh," the young man stated after a beat, "I'm sorry for your loss."

"It's fine." Tatsurama replied mildly before shaking the mood with a helpless shrug, "I'm suppose to be heading up there, but I don't have a clue how."

The man hums, "Do you have a piece of charcoal on you? I suppose I can lay down a path, I'm familiar enough with the area despite your... lacking map and poor navigation skills."

"Ah," the younger boy fumbles, before fishing out a small and well-used piece of charcoal. "Here."

"Thank you," he murmured, before the sound of charcoal against old cloth had reached his ears. "I suppose this will have to do. Though, I've been hearing that the capital's changed a lot. There has been some power shifts—something about the Lord being offed and the lordship being given to his wife."

"Oh," Tatsurama huffed out in surprise, his regularly dull green ones widening for a fraction, before settling again as the minor shock faded.

_The man from before had also mentioned the capital... Seems like she's there_.

"Shouldn't be too bad," the boy replied in a mutter, "Thank you."

The young man grinned back at him, showing a row of perfectly white teeth. _Huh, _Tatsurama though. _Dental hygiene does exist in this era. Probably only for the rich kids though. _He stores it away, after though, and flashes a small, but not false smile back.

"You're very much welcome," he chirped, yet not as cheery to break their quiet, but not somber mood. "Though, I suppose I should have introduced myself before so."

Tatsurama's eyebrows raise in surprise before he smooths out his feature with an amused noise of his own. "Yes," he commented, "I suppose so."

And then held out his hand. "I'm Tatsurama."

"I'm Uchiha Genrui," the man smiled back mildly, before giving a squinted stare at his outstretched hand. _Oh_.

Oh shit. Tatsurama doesn't have a breakdown at the name, _he doesn't_, because he- doesn't. But, he quickly retracts his hand after realizing that he had greeted on western manners.

"Oh," Tatsurama remarked, a little flustered, "sorry, used to be a greeting we did at home."

Uchiha Genrui hums. "Interesting, but not unwelcomed. Its very interesting to see the different cultures of a single country."

"I see," Tatsurama replies, lamely, because he really doesn't see the value in that. And then, he rubs his eyes, which have been burning for the last twenty minutes now, but have ignored in the wake of information.

Genrui notices. "I figure I should retire to bed—as should you. The Inn's futons aren't as comfortable, but I suppose it'll do." With that, he raises to his feet, and flashes a charming smile at the younger boy.

"Good night."

"Ah—good night," Tatsurama returned, awkwardly. 

He glanced back at the map—a replacement of the one he had torn, sketched from vivid memory—with it's new addition, then sighs, folds it carefully and tucks it into his cloak, before getting to his feet as well. He rubs at his eyes again, before folding to the demand of rest. He supposed he could feign off of travel for a bit.

Tatsurama treks into the small room, sees the prepared futon and gives a relieved sigh. He departs with the cloak, a ratty, but familiar thing, and falls back onto the futon, almost harshly. He winces, before relaxing on.

It's dark. _(Who tur—_)

But, the only thing that allows him sight is the moonlight that peaks through the cracks. He huffs, feeling the faint effect of vertigo at the sudden change of scenery after five months of nothing, but solitary and gloom, before sighing into his pillow.

How quaint. And peaceful the night has been. He can't help, but feel like this is a luxury; a calm before the chaos a turbulent storm would leave in it's wake.

"Oh well." He muttered tiredly into his pillow, "I'll get there when I get there."  
  


* * *

**Chapter Three**   
**Ocean Tide**   
**End.**

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huh, interesting.


	5. Lull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> rich shelter boy learns to eat fish.  
emotionally constipated boy learns to have chill in this odd and lonely world he’s found himself in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Yayyyy....
> 
> Now, to proceed back to my bunker and hide for another forty years before another update lmao
> 
> (Not beta-read.)

Morning comes in a ray of blinding light, searing his eyelids as he scrunches his face in discomfort. His eyes struggle to open, hazy green eyes flickering—struggling. For a moment, he forgets. And it's _thick blankets—alarm clock blaring, wake up wake up wake up, e̶͖̙̩̮͐̆͗ͅr̴̨͇͎̜͓̺̘̘̯͖̮̆͂̔̏̐̚͘͘͜ͅr̴̡̖̒̍͂̋ȏ̷̧̖̺̘̖͓͉̠̪̒͝r̶̢̛̦̣͌̈́̓͑͌̈́͊͂̕͝͝͝ —!_

The hardness of the tree grounds him. The world tilts on it's axis, his vision spins. The smell of the morning dew reaches his nose and the texture of the bark presses against his back and head. Tatsurama squeezes his eyes shut, angles out his hand to reach for the scene of _morning, wake up—alarm clock, her yelling, normal normal home—grasp, _squeeze hold—

It fades away and he wonders why he tried. The scent of home, the taste of home-cooked meals disappear from his memories. The faces of yesterday's friends vanish into wisps of smoke and he wonders why he can't remember the thing he's trying so hard to cling onto.

* * *

**CHAPTER FOUR**  
**LULL**

* * *

An old, Edo-era Inn, unfortunately, does not serve breakfast for free. Nor does it serve breakfast, _at all_. Tatsurama chews on his lip as the gremlins in his stomach growl and scratch, but promptly ignores it. During the sleepless nights and lonely days away from society, Tatsurama had foraged nature and it's creatures to provide for himself. _(It is okay.)_

"Tatsurama-san?" A beat. "Tatsurama-san?"

"Ah?" He shoves down the surfacing thoughts of beady eyes staring at him, in the advancing presence of Uchiha Genrui, a placating smile on his face. "Oh."

"Good morning, Uchiha-_san_," he greeted plainly, adding on the foreign suffix, voice tilting a little higher in pitch at his masked unease and ignorance.

The young man shoots him a beaming smile back, eyes crinkling. "Aha! Good morning to you too!" He huffed, "Such a wonderful morning, with the sun shining beautifully behind us."

Then, he glanced around, distaste in his tone as his nose wrinkled, "Such a shame this inn does not serve food for it's starving clients." He remarked a moment later.

Tatsurama hummed back in response, not dignifying a response as both had moved to return their keys, and exited the Inn. He quirks up an eyebrow, "Are you heading to the Capital as well?" He inquired.

The young man raises an eyebrow back, "I'm surprised you don't know, given that I have imparted my name to you," he muttered, an odd note to his tone. "But, yes."

Tatsurama's walls immediately slam up as alarms wail in his ears. Almost immediately, his hand raises to scratch his cheek, brows furrowing and mouth twisting. "Sorry. I haven't really been out much, other than to take runs down from the mountain to the nearby town to get enough money for food for my grandma and I." _Flimsy. Amateur._

"I see," the Uchiha said, smiling pleasantly once more, though it was no lost on him that the sharp glint in the other's eyes had not faded. _(His walls slam up.) _"Apologies. I should be less ignorant on the fact that not all of are born with a silver spoon in our mouth."

The boy shoots the young man a curious look. "From that, I can say you're some type of noble?" He asked.

"Yes," Uchiha agreed, nodding his head firmly. "I'm the heir, in fact."

He seemed proud, Tatsurama thought dryly as he looked at the man. "You don't seem to act like what I'd think a noble would act like," he added carefully as the Uchiha's facial expression twists and sours.

A beat of silence flickers between them as Uchiha glowers, before he sighs. "I get what you mean. They usually seem more... round and snobbish, don't you think?" He jeered, playful as Tatsurama stares in open surprise before the boy laughs, an odd thing that suspiciously sounds like he's having trouble breathing.

Uchiha joins him before they both die out. The last of the laughter fades out and they walk on, together in a peaceful silence. Tatsurama closes his eyes, feels the warm light of the rising sun caress the nape of his neck, the crisp air that enters his lungs, and despairingly _imagines_. The sound of footsteps ring in his ear and his heart pounds. _(Remember them.)_

_(...Mom would be in the living room—what color was the couch?—I would be walking to the train station... the taste of rice and fish in my mouth, homemade miso soup—what did that taste like again?—weight of my textbooks—how heavy were they? Tsukasa—?)_

"Tatsurama-san?"

He blinks. A foul taste enters his mouth as the Uchiha gives him a curious stare, hand falling to his side. _(Why do you remember—_cling onto_—them?)_

Uchiha frowned. "You stopped so suddenly, I didn't realize it until we were at least fifty steps away from each other." He slowly said as Tatsurama stares in surprise.

The air, crisp and fresh from the morning, feels like knives as he breathes in. Feels like they're stabbing into his lungs and Tatsurama _can't breathe—_

"You came back for me?" He asked blankly, a hint of surprise tinting his tone and his eyes flicker.

"Well," the Uchiha grins, dark, black eyes—like the _void, pitch blackwhoturnsoffthe—_glimmering with a form of excitement. "I thought it would be bes—_fun _if we were to travel together!"

Tatsurama shuffles, eyes unreadable as he continues to stare at the young man in front of him. It doesn't escape his attention that there was a brief slip up from the apparent heir. He purses his lips, brows furrowing before they ease out into an easy-going smile.

"I guess," he replies, neutral and not giving away to any inner thought. "It would be less lonely."

_(The feeling of warmth-that-wasn't, of day old grief and settled regrets wash away with force. He doesn't want to forget.)_

Uchiha Genrui grins at him. "Alright!" He cheered and turns to continue the trek. Tatsurama quietly follows.

_(His name was Makoto. And he forgot.)_

* * *

"Say," Uchiha begans, hesitant as he stares at the smoking trout. "Eating this won't kill me, correct? I won't die of like—food poisoning, yes?"

Tatsurama silently turns the trouts with the sticks that are speared into them and frowns. "No. Why would they?" He replied. "It hasn't happened before."

Tatsurama gives a considering glance at the Uchiha from the corner at his eye before turning his attention back to the cooking fish. The noble grimaces silently, but does not verbally fret.

The sound of the tame fire crackling fills the silence. In the distance, Tatsurama can hear crickets and relaxes back against the tree he's taken. The smell of the trout reaches his nose, he gives a small hum and gives it a flick before taking them off the fire. In the wake of the night, Tatsurama catches a small amount of steam wafting off of the fish and offers a stick of two towards the Uchiha.

"Be careful," he said, "they're hot."

The Uchiha gives him a dry look, but he takes the stick and eyes it warily. Tatsurama looks at the display with a small amount of amusement before giving his attention to his own share. He blows on one, waits a second before taking a bite, ignoring the sting of the lessened burn with practice. The teen chews, silent before looking up at the Uchiha with a small smirk curling at the corner of his lips.

"It's not going to kill you."

Uchiha looks up from his fish, eyebrows drawn and eyes blazing furious before taking a vicious bite that defied all the manners instilled into him. A second later, he howls in pain as the fish burns his mouth with it's heat and Tatsurama huffs out a laugh.

"_Hot—hot hot, _hot!"

The Uchiha sticks his tongue out and desperately exhales, in hopes of quelling the heat. Tatsurama hands him his water pouch at the pitiful display. Uchiha gives a sigh of relief of satisfaction before staring down at the bit fish and takes another bite. The teen raises an eyebrow at him and the Uchiha grumbles.

"...It's adequate."

"And safe," Tatsurama chimes in, a moment later with an almost teasing smile.

* * *

The night is peaceful. If he had looked up, Tatsurama could have seen the twinkling stars that painted the inky, black night. Fed and satisfied with the dinner, Uchiha Genrui slumbers beside him in his sleeping bag, chest falling and rising, in pace with his breathing. There, his wall melts down as the only cognitive one left in the small, present world which had surrounded him at the moment was himself.

The sound of crickets fade into the background. Absentmindedly, he thinks with gratefulness that it didn't rain tonight. A small frown pulls at his lips. _Would have made hunting and finding a place harder... _His eyes trail to his new companion. _For two people._

He sighs, leans against the rough bark of the tree and ignores the feeling of discomfort which dig into his back and his skull. Closes his eyes for a second. Then, for two.

Silence is all encompassing. Deafening. Sometimes _too_ silent—like the chaos in the middle of calm. Digs into your skull and makes you question—makes you spiral into madness. Incomprehensible. Chaotic to the human brain and thought.

Silence is also safe. Calm. A blanket—

_It is okay._

With silence, Tatsurama falls asleep, pulled into nightmares of the present and daydreams of the past. Always forgetting, yet always remembering.  
  


* * *

**CHAPTER FOUR**  
**LULL**  
**END.**

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Lulled into a false sense of security..."


End file.
